Storyline: Rafael Nadal, to me, is more than a hero. The man, who once lived and loved and embodied everything on clay, is now biting the dust.
“Columnists or they say, writers,
Wield pen and nibs, on many a mung.
Irenology occupies our soft palate,
For we indulge in ipsedixitism”
Well if you, dear readers, wonder who we are … we are the columnists who busy ourselves in the immortality of men who play the sports. It’s nearing August and we are the nothing but mortals before our heroes.
It’s raining on the shore, and on the base, and on the cheeks of many an aficionado. It rains, too, in the lacuna of many a broken heart. Well, if you, my friends wonder what I am talking about, may I request you to understand it’s my agony flowing freely? And that my life has been paralyzed at the site of seeing my hero and fellow lefty wane from his immortal sorcery that once prevailed on the Tennis pitch.
Courtesy: rafaelnadalfans.com
Rafael Nadal, to me, is more than a hero. The man, who once lived and loved and embodied everything on clay, is now biting the dust. Loathing and leveraging will forever rule the passage of time for I feel orphaned at the site of missing the silver ware.
Broken shells and beaten souls tell many a story of patience and perseverance if not caked bosoms that hardly bore any pack of pain. Isn’t it?
I wonder at times, if we will only be confined to eulogies and eulogies and more eulogies. In all humility and honesty, I want and wish that my hero will surely reign supreme, come future. One can only hope that the phalanges and metacarpals will cement their place and allow my hero to work his craft out.
At this juncture of time I’d love to share a few lines with you, what one columnist wrote about Federer and Nadal in his article “Fedal – An Ode to a Legacy”: “Every drop was picked up. Every lob was smashed. Every slice was returned with some more spin added to it. Every yard of the court was covered, with one running frantically as if his life depended on it and the other in an unhurried manner like he had all the time in the world.”
Isn’t it true, ladies and gentlemen?
Courtesy: www.telegraph.co.uk
I wonder, to be frank, if the oblique fissures and the cricoid cartilages are made up of steel and even more than that. There were many times in his career when Nadal’s where I thought he would suffer with rheumatism due to stupendous work on clay, grass and hard courts.
With as many as many events coming up and Rafa nearly drowning to the depths of his one glorious career, we all hope it’s just a filthy passage of time and that he will rise to the phoenix he once ruled, all over again.
Efficacious is one thing which I truly believe in my fellow left hander. I pray he will be immortal before he hangs that Tennis bat for one final time.
Before I silently and serenely go into oblivion and meditate myself to death, I’d like to leave you all with a wee poem. I hope, you will enjoy going through.
The reader and aficionado stand flabbergasted,
By the soul playing nature of the scripted,
And feels as Nadal is writing on his behalf instead.
Tennis in all humility lies positioned,
In the core of the reader’s heart,
He, Rafa, puts the opponent to unanswerable questions
And fools with varied answers.
If the opponent is hugged in silence,
He is slapped against public’s dissidence.
In short, Nadal is unseen but heard,
And felt but untouched, a god.
His’s are stories filthy and vivacious,
Like forests dense and sparse,
Like the evergreen woods, today, a scarce of life.
To me, a dilettante of Rafael Nadal,
Is a player of top quality verse and legacy,
A hero of supreme prose and virtuosity.
And so, to watch Nadal is wisdom,
To understand him is a blessing ,
To love is one’s decorum.
© Ravi Teja Mandapaka.
